


For Centuries

by callervera



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Vampire Diaries AU (kinda), canon-era violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:04:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4130521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callervera/pseuds/callervera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Vampire Diaries AU (sort of).</p><p>Grantaire meets a vampire on his ill-fated trip to the Barriere du Maine. The barricade ends differently.</p><p>"Grantaire tightens his embrace. Enjolras is cold against him. But that’s not a surprise. They’ve both been cold since 1832."</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Centuries

**Author's Note:**

> Contains blood, violence and canon-era death. Some trigger warnings for all that and for claustrophobia. People die, but most of them come back. This is not a sad story.
> 
> This follows the conventions and mythology of The Vampire Diaries.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr.](http://icallervera.tumblr.com/)  
> Come say hi.  
> 

** New York City. Now. **

Enjolras wakes up gasping. He jerks bolt upright in bed, brokenly sucking down great gulps of air into his useless lungs, hands clawing at the soft cotton of the sheets. Between ragged, desperate breaths, he screams out the names of his friends— _Jehan, Eponine, Gavroche, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Marius, Courfeyrac, Combeferre_ and, finally, _Grantaire._ Before Enjolras even gets to the last name, Grantaire is awake at his side, strong arms wrapping around him, soothing words pouring into his delicate ear, hands smoothing his golden curls. It takes Enjolras several tense, confused seconds to break out the nightmare; to realize that he is in a warm bed, safe in the arms of his companion, not alone in a pine box six feet underground. He curls into Grantaire’s side and waits for the shaking to pass. 

The sky outside the bedroom window is still dark, but the pulsing, electric glow of the City that Never Sleeps seeps through the open curtains and gilds Enjolras’ profile. The light dances off the fine line of his nose; along his parted, panting lips; illuminating each deep crease furrowed into his brow. Grantaire keeps one arm tight around Enjolras while his other hand gropes along the nightstand until he finds his phone. He thumbs the screen to life and is completely unsurprised at the time illuminated there: 10:37pm, Eastern Standard Time.

That would be 4:37am in Paris.

Whenever Enjolras wakes up screaming, it is always at 4:37am, Central European Time. The frequency of the nightmares has ebbed and flowed throughout the centuries, but lately they’ve been occurring more often. The cause is always a mystery, but the attacks tend to happen when they are nearing the date of a planned action or when they’ve been separated from their friends for an extended period of time. As far as Grantaire knows, Enjolras has no missions planned, but they haven’t seen Courfeyrac and Combeferre in nearly two months.

They should really make Courfeyrac and Combeferre come home, get the gang back together, give Enjolras some respite.

Enjolras never talks about this recurring nightmare that has dogged him through decades and across continents, but Grantaire can guess at the dream. When he awakes, Enjolras is struggling to breath, clawing at the air, sometimes screaming the names of his friends. Grantaire has seen him in that state countless times throughout the years that they’ve spent together, but he’ll never forget the first time.

** Paris, 1832 **

It takes Enjolras some time to realize that he is actually alive. The darkness of death is nearly identical to the pitch-black that envelops him now. The first clue to his vitality is the smell: fresh pine and musty earth. Death didn’t smell like anything. But this place, wherever it is, smells of wood and dirt. Enjolras makes to sit up, but his forehead connects sharply with a solid wall of wood, just inches from his face.

That’s not good a good thing.

His right hand moves to explore the wooden barrier above him, but his elbow knocks sharply against another wooden plank at his side and his arm is unable to extend. His left elbow bends out and finds the other side of his confinement. He’s trapped. There are just a few inches of space above his nose, and fewer on either side of him. The smell of dirt. The cold chill seeping in from all sides. His booted feet stretch downward and the hollow tapping of his toes on still more wood finally confirms his growing fear: he’s in a coffin. 

He needs to slow his breathing, conserve his air until he comes up with a plan to free himself. There is enough room between the coffin lid and his torso to allow his right arm to bend at the elbow so he can rest his hand on his heart, a calming gesture that Joly had taught him early in the planning stages of their revolt. _Feel your heartbeat,_ Joly had instructed, _breathe in and out, calmly and deeply, feel your pulse slow and your head clear._ Enjolras wonders if Joly had time to clear his head and slow his panicking heart as he bled out on the paving stones of the Rue de la Chanvrerie. If he’d been strong enough to wring a few more moments of life from his torn body, in order to remain alive long enough hold Bossuet as he’d died. Enjolras hoped so: it would have brought Joly great comfort to see his best friend safely dispatched before following him into the dark.

Enjolras had had caught the briefest glimpse of them as he’d retreated into the wine shop: both riddled with musket balls, lying together with their hands joined, an island of friendship and devotion amidst an ocean of their own blood. They had been alive, but barely. 

He grows frantic again as he inventories his friends’ deaths. Courfeyrac, dead. Feuilly, dead. Bahorel died laughing. Combeferre had fallen at the summit of the barricade, Courfeyrac’s name ripped from his dying mouth by the blades of the guardsmen’s bayonets. Prouvaire and Gavroche and the girl who had saved Marius—“Her name was Eponine,” Marius had informed them, tears streaming down his young face as he cradled her cooling body-- had perished early, but Enjolras did not mourn them any less.

What became of Marius Pontmercy? Enjolras does not know, but it is all too likely that he too had joined the ranks of the newly mourned.

Enjolras calms his breathing by reciting their names in his mind, a slow, rhythmic parade of fallen comrades: _Jehan, Eponine, Gavroche, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Marius, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Grantaire, Jehan, Eponine, Gavroche, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Marius, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Grantaire--_

Enjolras forces the panic back down. Grantaire had died with him. Grantaire, whom he had dismissed and debased, scorned and spurned on occasions too numerous to count. Grantaire stood by his side at the very end, clasped Enjolras’ hand in his own as the National Guard had pointed the merciless black eyes of their muskets at them. Grantaire could have hidden, he could have run, but he did not. He stayed with Enjolras until the very end. The last thing that Enjolras remembered was the weight of Grantaire falling onto his feet as the musket balls pierced his own heart.

His heart. Enjolras should feel the beat of his heart under the solid flesh of this chest, but it is not there. There should be holes there in his breast, but there are not. He remembers the searing pain in his breast as he was torn open, thrown back against the wall. Each wound burned like a small sun inside of him in that last instant before death overcame him.

There are no wounds. His flesh is whole under his hand.

His breath begins to rise in panicking waves and nothing can calm him now. Enjolras begins his mantra of the dead again.

_\--Jehan, Eponine, Gavroche, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Marius, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Grantaire, Jehan, Eponine, Gavroche, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Marius, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Grantaire--_

It does not work. He is panting and crying. Tears should be streaming down his cheeks, but his eyes are dry. Great sobs rip from his lungs, wasting precious air, but Enjolras cannot stop them.

_\--Jehan, Eponine, Gavroche, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Marius, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Grantaire, Jehan, Eponine, Gavroche, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Marius, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Grantaire—_

The words are no longer in his mind, but pouring out of his mouth, Enjolras is screaming. He should be out of oxygen, he should not be able to breath any longer in this black tomb, but his lungs still push the stale air out of his lungs and over his vocal cords. He cannot move, he cannot see, he cannot hear.

But Enjolras can still scream.

_\--Jehan, Eponine, Gavroche, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Marius, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Grantaire!_

** New York City. Now. **

“Grantaire,” Enjolras presses his face into the hollow between Grantaire’s shoulder blades and tightens his arms around him when the other man makes a move to leave their bed; if Grantaire can even be called a man anymore; if either of them can be. “Please don’t leave me.”

The night sky is darker and the city still throbs with life below them, but the room is calmer now. Enjolras’ breath has slowed down and, although he is still breathing deeply and harshly, it has found a safe rhythm. Grantaire is comforted enough to try and get him to eat. Nourishment will go a long way toward Enjolras’ recovery.

“I’m just going to the kitchen,” Grantaire presses a soft kiss against Enjolras’ locked hands and then pushes gently through them. “I’ll be back before you can say ‘Vive la France!’”

Enjolras frowns. “Vive la Fr---“

Grantaire is already back, a sturdy plastic bag clutched in his pale hands. In this poor light, its contents look almost black. Their kitchen has two oversized refrigerators filled with similar baggies. Enjolras doesn’t much care for dining out.

Grantaire hands him the blood bag and then moves to sit behind him on the bed, hooking his chin over Enjolras’ shoulder while he drains the bag. “We should go out at night,” Grantaire complains, taking the opportunity to speak while Enjolras’ mouth is otherwise occupied. “You never have this dream when we sleep during the day, Enjolras.”

“How do you know what dream I had?” Enjolras replies, balling up the emptied blood bag and aiming for a trashcan in the corner of the bedroom. He misses the shot. Enjolras and Grantaire may now have heightened physical abilities—speed, strength, stamina—but not even supernatural powers can make Enjolras good at sports. If trashcan basketball can be considered a sport.

Grantaire moves over to the trashcan, too fast to see, tosses the baggie in and then back to the bed. He’s snuggled against again Enjolras before Enjolras realized he was even gone. Speed has its perks.

“I know it’s the same dream because it’s always the same dream,” Grantaire says. “You won’t talk about it, but I know. I don’t know the details—“

“Because I don’t want to talk about them, Grantaire.”

“And you don’t have to, Apollo, but we’ve got to find a way to make the dream stop. It’s almost been two centuries now and you can’t keep tormenting yourself.”

Enjolras curls up on the bed, knees tucked into his chest. Grantaire follows him down, wrapping himself along the line of Enjolras’ back like a second skin. “Our friends _died_ , Grantaire. I died. _You_ died.”

Grantaire tightens his embrace. Enjolras is cold against him. But that’s nothing new. They’ve both been cold since 1832. “But we’re fine now. Our friends are fine. We’ve been fine for almost two hundred years.”

Enjolras flips around to face Grantaire, his bright blue eyes penetrating Grantaire’s green ones. He isn’t angry, at least Grantaire doesn’t think he is, just intense. And intensity from Enjolras, even after all these years together, is still terrifying. “And why? Whose fault is that?”

“Um,” Grantaire hesitates. He knows the answer, but doesn’t like Enjolras’ phrasing. “Fault” is not a safe-sounding word.

“Your fault, Grantaire. _You_ did it.” Enjolras closes his eyes. When he opens them, they are filled with decades of sadness and guilt. “I got us all killed and you resurrected us. _You_ saved us all.”

** Paris, 1832 **

The wooden lid of the coffin is strong, but Enjolras has managed to give it a few cracks with what remains of his strength. He begins tearing at the rents in the wood grain, pulling with his fingertips, ripping the edges of his fingernails. Blood trickles down his fingers. He can still bleed.

He does not know why he is so desperate to break apart the wooden ceiling, he knows full well that when (if) he does, his only reward will be six feet of freshly packed earth. But Enjolras will not go quietly into the night. He stood tall and accepted his first death, he will not waste this second one. It is a better thing to fight the wood and the earth and darkness with every scrap of life left in his body, rather than lie complacent, screaming into the dark.

Although he still screams.

_\--Jehan, Eponine, Gavroche, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Marius, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Grantaire—_

_Enjolras!_

His own name joins the list of the dead, but it did not come from his lips. Somewhere overhead, in the land of the living, someone is calling for him.

Enjolras uses his fists now, and the boards begin to shatter. A rain of splinters and cold drops splatter onto his face, but he simply pounds harder. The wood cracks under his next blow and his right hand plunges through the debris into the cold, wet earth. Dirt begins to slowly spill into the coffin, like sands through the neck of an hourglass. How long before his time is up? Before his wooden sanctuary is filled and he is entombed again?

The voice above him calls his name again— _Enjolras!—_ and he digs with renewed vigor. Someone is up there. Someone has found him. Both hands are through the wood and dirt covers his face. The grit invades his mouth but he does not stop screaming-- _\--Jehan, Eponine, Gavroche, Bahorel, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Marius, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Gran—_

His mouth is full of earth now and he is silenced. He is not suffocating. He is not growing weaker. Enjolras pushes further toward the surface, his eyes screwed shut against the rough grains that assault him, fill his mouth and nose. The voice is closer— _Enjolras!—_ and now, blessedly, a pair of strong hands grip his own and draw him up, toward the sky, the air and life. His face breaches the surface and Enjolras feels himself pulled into a tight embrace. The arms locked around him are not warm but firm as iron bands.

“Enjolras,” the voice is in his ear now, rough and familiar. “Enjolras, thank god.”

Enjolras pulls back and looks at his savior. In front of him, kneeling deep within the wrecked earth of a destroyed grave, is Grantaire.

The moon is low in the sky and its cold light casts an otherworldly sheen Grantaire’s pale skin. The purple circles under his bright green eyes are deeper, as if Grantaire had painted them on, using an artist’s trick to make them so vibrant. Dirt and bits of grass cling to his black curls. A spade is tossed to one side of the open grave, resting on a pile of fresh dirt.

Grantaire grips Enjolras’ shoulders with both hands, holding him at a reverential distance. His shirt sleeves are filthy with the effort of digging, his waistcoat dirty and his collar open, cravat uselessly hanging around his neck like an ill-tied hang-man’s noose.

But Grantaire is whole. There are no wounds, his clothing is not torn. No blood mars the ghostly form that now silently sits in front of Enjolras. Waiting for him to speak. Waiting for… something.

Spitting out a mouthful of dirt, Enjolras ventures to ask, “Grantaire?” and then he is pulled back into a desperate hug.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire murmurs his name again into the shell of his ear. “Enjolras, I thought we’d lost you.”

The words are too much. A tremor rocks through his body and Enjolras is shaking, held tight in Grantaire’s arms. “I died, Grantaire, I thought I’d died…”

“Enjolras—“

“I thought _you_ died—“

And Grantaire pulls away again, but not far. He presses his forehead against Enjolras’ filthy golden brow. “You did. I did. We died, Enjolras.”

Enjolras can say nothing to this, but raises his blue eyes to meet Grantaire’s in the cold moonlight of the Paris night. Montmartre cemetery is dark around them, but there is the rustling of leaves, wind through the tips of the laden summer tree branches. Somewhere, quite near, a nightbird calls out in a rough mockery of song.

Finally Grantaire breaks the silence. “We couldn’t find your body. After night fell, everyone else was thrown into a ditch, _I_ was thrown into that same ditch. The National Guard cleaned up our mess, quickly and efficiently. Erased all signs of revolution, of us. They wanted the people to forget, I suppose.

“But your family sent someone for your body.”

This is surprising news. His family had wanted nothing to do with their revolutionary son during the last few years of his life, he’d expected they’d feel the same about him in death. He wants more information, but his familial issues can wait. There are more urgent questions.

Grantaire is still talking. “Musichetta and I pulled everyone else out, but we couldn’t find you. I’ve been mad with worry, I must have scoured half the city before I found out where you’d been buried.”

“ _Everyone_ else?” Enjolras cannot believe this. All of his friends, safe and whole?

“Everyone, Enjolras,” Grantaire confirms. “Jehan and Eponine and Gavroche awoke first. They died first, so…”

“They died—“ Those words again. How can this be?

“Musichetta procured a cellar for us, everyone else is waiting there. They should be awake, too, by now. Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Feuilly, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel…”

A name is missing. “What of Marius?”

Grantaire smiles grimly, one side of his full mouth pulling into a smirk that Enjolras knows too well. “Marius Pontmercy survived the barricade, Enjolras. He was pulled to safety and was undetected by the National Guard. Marius lives.”

“Marius is alive?” Enjolras repeats. “And so are we all?”

Grantaire’s black eyebrows pull together. “Marius is alive, Enjolras, and the rest of us… well, we are not dead. But we do not live.”

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks softly, his mouth still gritty with dirt. “Grantaire, what did you do?”

###

What Grantaire had done was simple. He’d become a vampire.

He hadn’t expected to do it, hadn’t even know that such a thing was an option. Paris was filled with stories of vampires walking the streets, but Grantaire had always written them off as superstitious legends or folktales, stories that mothers told their children to keep them off the streets after nightfall. He’d never expected to meet one.

One evening, after a brief squabble, Enjolras had roughly consented to allow Grantaire to go the Barriere du Maine and carry their message to the workers there. Grantaire had greedily accepted the task, grateful for the chance to prove his worth, reverse Enjolras’ grim opinion of him. To the Barriere du Maine he was sent, so to the Barriere du Maine Grantaire went.

When Grantaire pushed open the door to the smoking room in the back of Richefeu’s, he was met with a haze of smoke and apathetic stares from the working-men assembled within. For nearly thirty minutes, he tried his best to carry the message of _l’ABC_. He spoke boldly of Robespierre, of Danton, of principles. Of Enjolras. But, while he could speak _of_ Enjolras, he was not Enjolras. He could not sway men’s hearts with his words, he could not light the flame of rebellion in them. One by one, his audience turned away from him and settled back into their games of dominoes.

Eventually, Grantaire realized that he was speaking only to himself. He collapsed into a chair in a corner, ordered a bottle of wine from a bored looking barmaid, and sadly began to fiddle with the small tiles spread across the scarred wood table top. His despair overcame him. Grantaire loosened his neatly tied cravat, unbuttoned his scarlet waistcoat and let his forehead thunk onto the table. Enjolras was right. He was not good for anything.

“Fine words,” a smooth voice drifted across the table. Grantaire snapped his head up. He had not noticed anyone sitting down in the chair across from him, but someone was there now. A blonde man sat opposite him, smaller in stature than Enjolras, but no less intense.

“Those words are not mine,” Grantaire replied, sullenly. All he wanted now was to get drunk in peace. He had no time for strangers, not even blonde, handsome strangers. “They belong to another man, a better man. I only borrowed them for a while, but they fit me ill, like a lent coat.”

“I thought you wore them well,” the man pressed on, gazing at Grantaire with vivid blue eyes. They were a blue-green, not the ice blue eyes of Enjolras. A poor substitute. The wine was delivered, and the man poured out two glasses. “Do you believe in the words you said?”

“I believe in the man who said them,” Grantaire answered gruffly, reaching over to take his wine from the stranger’s hands. Their fingertips brushed as Grantaire grasped the glass. The man’s hands were cold. Grantaire involuntarily shuddered.

“Tell me about him,” the man said.

“I’d rather get drunk in solitude, if you please.”

“You may get drunk _and_ tell me about him,” the blonde man leaned further forward still, his eyes boring into Grantaire. Their blue seemed to darken. Grantaire found himself unable to look away, as if those blue eyes had reached inside his head and were forcing him to comply. “Tell me about him,” the man said again.

Grantaire did. He spoke of Enjolras, of _les Amis de l’ABC,_ of their planned rebellion. He spoke of his misgivings, his fear that they would fail. At some point in the evening, Grantaire realized that he and the man had started a game of dominoes and that their conversation had shifted and they were simply speaking of the game.

"Domino.”

"Plague take it!" the man replied with a smile and drained his glass.

"Neither five nor one. That's bad for you." Grantaire finished his own glass. The wine was gone and he did not know what time it was.

He did not remember the particulars of what he told the man. He did not know when they had started playing the game. Grantaire shook his head, black curls rustling around his ears. The wine at Richefeu’s must have been stronger than he’d thought. 

“I must go,” Grantaire told the man, pushing his chair away from the table and rising unsteadily to his feet. He did not relish the thought of reporting his failure back to Enjolras. It might be the last straw. Enjolras might dismiss him forever.

The man’s hand was suddenly on his, fingers cold as ice. Grantaire did not see him make the move, but his hand was there nonetheless.

“You will come back here tomorrow night, Grantaire,” the man told him, blue eyes locked back on Grantaire. It was not a request.

Tomorrow night, Grantaire was expected at the Musain. He could not come back here and idle the evening away playing at dominoes with this man. “I’ll come back tomorrow night,” he heard himself replying.

Grantaire came back the next night. And the next. For almost a fortnight, he finished every evening in the back room of Richefeu’s with the man. If Enjolras or any of the _Amis_ noticed Grantaire slipping out of meetings early, they did not comment. Why should they? He was useless to the cause. The end of the meetings probably ran more smoothly without his grating presence.

On the night of General Lamarque’s death, while Enjolras and his friends drummed up public support and whispered words of rebellion in dark taverns across the city, Grantaire found himself once again at the Barriere du Maine, seated across from the stranger. The man’s eyes were quiet, and Grantaire felt as if his mind were completely his own. He did not know what to say. They drank quietly.

After a long silence, the man simply told him, “Your revolution will begin within the week, Grantaire.”

He’d only nodded and started in on a second bottle of wine.

“And it will end almost as quickly.”

Grantaire’s head snapped up. Who was this man to question the rebellion, to doubt Enjolras? “You don’t know that.”

“I do. Your rebellion will end and your friends will be dead.”

Grantaire opened his mouth, as if to contradict this black opinion. Hot tears began to prick at the corners of his eyes and he closed his mouth again. The man was right. They did not stand a chance. Public opinion had not changed. The evidence was right here, in Richefeu’s, where downtrodden labourers would rather gamble and drink than rise up. The man was right. Enjolras would call and no one would come. They were doomed.

“What would you do to save them?”

###

Grantaire’s death did not hurt. The man snapped his neck efficiently in the alley behind Richefeu’s and Grantaire’s world had gone black.

In his last moment of consciousness, mouth still tingling with the iron taste of the blood the stranger had fed him from his own wrist, Grantaire thought only of Enjolras. He hoped he would see him again. He hoped this death would be worth something.

** New York City. Now. **

“I can’t get a hold of Courfeyrac and Combeferre,” Enjolras complains. He’s out of bed, but no less agitated as he paces the small apartment. “They won’t text me back.”

“They’re in Bruges,” Grantaire soothes, as he scrolls through Courfeyrac’s Instagram account for clues to his friends’ current whereabouts. The rumors about vampires being unable to see their reflection or appear in photographs are utter bullshit. Courfeyrac has a very entertaining collection of selfies on his Instagram. The most recent, posted yesterday, is a photo of Courfeyrac and Combeferre grinning and crammed together in front of a grey, Romanesque building that the caption identifies as the Basilica of Holy Blood. Courfeyrac’s sense of humor has only gotten strong over the past few centuries.

“I know they’re in Bruges,” Enjolras snaps. “Does the city of Bruges not have fucking cell phone reception?”

Enjolras has thoroughly embraced both swearing and modern technology in this second life. God, Grantaire loves him.

“I don’t know what the cell phone reception is like in Bruges, E,” Grantaire say. “I’ve never been to Bruges. You know, _we_ could go to Bruges.”

“You’re right. Let’s go out.”

“To Bruges?!”

“No,” Enjolras shakes his golden head, looking vaguely confused. “Here. In New York. Let’s go out.”

Grantaire pumps a fist in the air, speeds over to their tiny closet and begins to flip through his clothing options. Both he and Enjolras own a startling amount of black. They are such stereotypes. “Should we dress for a club? Or do you want to catch a late night cabaret show? Or we could just walk in the park for a while—" 

“The police presence in Queens has been overbearing for the last few months. We could head over there and maybe step in if things get out of hand.” Enjolras is gazing out the window at the skyline. Grantaire doubts he even heard Grantaire’s suggestions.

“Oh. You mean like, ‘social justice out.’ I was thinking ‘out out,’” he replies sadly, closing the closet door. Going out for reasons of social justice and vigilantism doesn’t require getting dressed up.

“We’ve been sitting here, dormant, for too long, R,” Enjolras crosses the room and takes Grantaire’s hand. “I didn’t choose a second life to simply stand by and watch the world burn.”

It was true. They’d spent the last dozen or so decades travelling the world, righting wrongs. Defending the oppressed by drinking the blood of the oppressors.

Every so often, rumors of a vampire hunter would come their way and they’d lay low until the threat had passed and then it was usually onto another mission. It was strange: all the things that Grantaire had once written off as legend or fairytales—vampire hunters, werewolves, witches—where a very real part of his life now. But none of those supernatural things, not the fiercest werewolf or the most vengeful demon, could compare with the horrors that humanity could inflict upon it’s own.

Enjolras was determined to use his second chance at life to save mankind. And Grantaire was just grateful to have a second life so he could stand by Enjolras’ side.

A sudden knock sounds on the wooden door. Grantaire and Enjolras both freeze. No one ever knocked on their door. Only the _Amis_ knew where they lived. They never ordered delivery, for obvious reasons.

Grantaire takes a deep breath in and a familiar scent fills his nose. “Jehan!” he crows as he speeds to the door and flings it wide open, wrapping Jehan up in a firm hug and swinging him into the apartment. “Jehan!”

** Paris, 1832 **

Jehan was the first to drink, which was quite fortunate because Jehan was also the first one to die.

If he’d waited as long as Enjolras to drink from Grantaire’s bottle, he would not have been saved from the ball that pierced his head when the National Guardsmen had executed him. It was in that moment, that first death, that Grantaire was fiercely grateful that he’d chosen to turn vampire. Even if no one else fell, even if he didn’t have to resurrect any of his other friends, his sacrifice was well-made if it brought Jean Prouvaire back from the dead.

The process of turning someone into a vampire was quite simple, the man had told him. Klaus. He was called Klaus. He had told Grantaire his name only after Grantaire had awoken from death and gorged himself on the blood of an old man that Klaus had waiting at his own home, thus completing his transition.

All you had to do, according to Klaus, was get a man to drink vampire blood. If the man died while it was still in his system, then he would be reborn as a vampire. If the man didn’t die… well. Then no harm done and he was still just a man.

Klaus had insisted on giving Grantaire his own blood for his friends. “You can use any vampire blood for a transition, Grantaire. Your own, if you like. But mine is old. Strong. And you don’t want to run around siring vampires just yet. It’s… tricky.”

Grantaire had not considered offering his own blood to his friends. He paled at the thought, if paling was even possible in his new altered state.

“You’re risking very little, Grantaire,” Klaus reassured him as he drained his wrist into a wine bottle. “If your friends succeed, then they remain unchanged. If they die, then you have saved them. In either case, you win.”

“If they survive the barricade and live, I’m still a vampire,” Grantaire said quietly.

“Correct. You are still a vampire.”

“So I’ll live long after they are gone.” Grantaire closed his eyes. He would watch Enjolras grow old. Perhaps get married and father children. Enjolras would wither and die and Grantaire would be alone.

“Ah,” Klaus’ voice was knowing. “You can stake yourself after your Enjolras dies a natural death. _Or_ you can come find me and we can see the world together. Paint Europe red, if you will.”

Klaus handed Grantaire the bottle. It was half-full with blood. That should be enough for his friends. If he mixed it with red wine, they may not notice the difference. The wine at the Corinth normally tastes terrible anyway.

“You know,” Klaus told him thoughtfully, “If your Enjolras lives and remain mortal, you can Compel him.”

“I can what?” Grantaire was lost.

“What I did to you, Grantaire, when I ordered you to come back to Richefeu’s. Look into his eyes and command him to do something. He has to obey.”

“No!” Grantaire was aghast at this thought. “I could never, not to Enjolras—“

His protestations were met with laughter. “All right,” Klaus smiled indulgently. “Believe that for now. But you may find that it comes in rather handy.”

At the barricade, on the first, last, and only night, his friends drank. One by one, they passed the bottle between them, taking small sips in order to keep their wits about them. Gavroche snuck the bottle and took a healthy swig before Bahorel could bat him away. The bottle was passed to a young woman dressed in boy’s apparel. Her disguise goes unnoticed by everyone else, but Grantaire’s new vampire eyes miss nothing. He also does not miss the way she stares at Marius Pontmercy.

Only Enjolras had abstained.

Grantaire should have thought of this, he really should have. Enjolras never partakes at their meetings. Grantaire has never seen him less than sober. But he’d thought, he’d hoped, that in the face of looming death, Enjolras would join his brothers in a toast. He does not. _Merde._

Grantaire was unable to contain his frustrations. A stream of despairing words poured out of him and washed over Enjolras. Grantaire stomped into the Corinth, but an arm reached out, vice-like, to stop him as he reaches the wine shop's door.

They were together in shadow. No one was looking. Enjolras’ blue eyes blazed into Grantaire, but he said nothing. _It may come in handy_ , Klaus had said. Grantaire reached out and rests his hand against the back of Enjolras’ neck. Enjolras did not flinch away.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said lowly, looking directly into his eyes. “Go drink from that wine bottle.”

“The bottle is empty,” Enjolras replied. His eyes were vague as they gazed back at Grantaire and his voice was soft. “Bossuet drained it a moment after you left.”

No. Oh, no. Grantaire really should have thought of that. He needs blood, he needs vampire blood for Enjolras and he doesn’t have time to leave the barricade in search of Klaus. If he still had a pulse, it would have been racing as he frantically thought.

His _pulse_.

Without hesitation, Grantaire bit into his own wrist and tore the skin, opening a scarlet gash against his pale skin. Enjolras was still standing quietly, eyes wide and waiting.

“Drink,” he ordered, holding his wrist up to Enjolras’ red mouth.

Enjolras drank.

** New York City. Now. **

“I thought you were South America,” Enjolras says, but not unkindly. He’s taking his own turn embracing Jehan and whirling him around the room. Even Enjolras can’t remain stoic in the presence of Jean Prouvaire.

“I was,” Jehan answers, laughing. “I saw the most wonderful trees, Enjolras! You two have to go, the rainforests are amazing. Did you know that you can pet jaguars? Well, most people can’t, but _we_ can. It’s amazing!”

Jehan rattles off tales of his journeys through South America and Grantaire goes to fetch him a blood bag. It’s only polite to offer a guest something to drink and Grantaire is a damn good host. Not that they ever have guests.

“But why are you back in America?” Grantaire asks, handing Jehan the bag.

“I got Combeferre’s text,” he replies.

“Combeferre’s text?” Enjolras says. “Combeferre’s texting _you_?”

“He texted all of us, Enjolras,” Jehan’s mouth is poised at the edge of the bag, ready to drink. “He told everyone to meet here, tonight. He’s got something to tell us. Or _show_ us, rather. I don’t know. It was a very cryptic text.”

Jehan dives into his blood bag. There is the sound of someone tripping up the stairs, a loud exhalation of curses and then a quick rap at the door. Joly and Bossuet have arrived.

Grantaire is puzzled. They had left the city a week ago, heading down to Louisiana to see if they could find Musichetta, or this incarnation of Musichetta. If they’d found her, she would have been with them. And they would never abandon a mission to find her. They always found her. No matter where or when she reincarnated, Bossuet and Joly always found Musichetta. If Combeferre’s text was enough to get them to bail on their search, then this must be a big fucking deal.

There is no time to question them, because more guests have arrived. Eponine and Gavroche slip in. It is always startling to Grantaire how small Gavroche has remained. The boy-vampire makes his way to the kitchen to grab a bag. Eponine sidles over to Grantaire’s side.

“Any idea what this is about?” she asks loudly. Not like there is any point in whispering. Everyone in here has supernaturally good hearing.

Grantaire shakes his head. Eponine frowns, her eyes narrowing between the black border of eyeliner of each lid. Eponine had wandered the globe for decades, mourning Marius Pontmercy and wearing variations of the same sad trench coat, pants and cap. Then the 1980’s happened and she’s been happily punked-out ever since. Grantaire is glad 80’s fashion is making a comeback. He’d felt kinda bad for Eponine during the early 2000’s.

Feuilly and Bahorel arrive together, banging up the stairs and bellowing into the apartment. Apparently they’d been in the Middle East studying martial arts. “Fucking Krav Maga, guys,” Bahorel exclaims. “It’s the _shit!”_

Grantaire considers warning him to keep his voice down so the neighbors don’t call the cops. But it might be really entertaining to see what happens if the NYPD tries to break up this party. The _Amis_ haven’t been super-fond of law enforcement since the early 1832. Funny thing, that.

The room quiets as Enjolras stands. It may have been centuries since they all gathered as students in the back room of the Café Musain, but in all truth, very little has changed. “Does anyone know why Combeferre asked you all to meet here?"

Every head in the room shakes a _no._ Grantaire hears a brief rustling on the staircase.

“Ask him yourself, E,” Grantaire says. “They’ve just arrived.”

Grantaire takes a breath. “Smells like both of them: ‘Ferre and Courf—“ and then another scent hits Grantaire’s nostrils. It’s familiar. Friendly. And he hasn’t smelled it since an evening in 1892, when he stood beside the bed of a dying man and said goodbye to a very old friend. But this scent is different. It isn’t the scent that belonged to that old man. This smell is young and fresh and reminds Grantaire of a boy standing in front of a crowd of relative strangers and declaiming the virtues of Napoleon Bonaparte.

It can’t be.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac push the door open. Behind them trails a young man, tall, slender and no older than twenty. Messy ginger hair, a face full of freckles and a sweet, unassuming grin. A heart beats in his chest and blood flows in his veins.

The room is silent. The only sound is the beating of the boy’s heart.

“Hello,” he finally says, a bit awkwardly. “My name is Marius Pontmercy.”


End file.
